


Peace Talks

by subjunctive



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cousin Incest, F/M, Future Fic, POV Sansa, Seduction, adopted half sibling incest, valar-morekinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 17:39:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7650220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subjunctive/pseuds/subjunctive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa pulls an Olenna Redwyne and takes her future in her hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peace Talks

**Author's Note:**

> For a valar-morekinks prompt.

For days Sansa was clearly displeased by his announcement, but Jon wasn’t sure why, or if there was anything he could do about it. Staying wasn’t an option. They ruled Winterfell together well, better than he ever could have hoped, but they both knew the harmony they’d achieved wouldn’t last forever.

As the Dragon Queen’s only living relative, Jon was headed south to treat with her on behalf of the North and secure her support in the war to come. The war that was almost on top of them.

Jon watched her from the corner of his eye as they sat in her solar. To the untrained eye, she was perfectly composed and nothing was amiss. But to Jon, who had kept her company here many times, there was an extra violence in the way she stabbed the needle through the fabric and yanked it out the other side.

She was angry with him, and he didn’t like it. Not when there were only two nights left before his departure. They had lived in such peace, he thought with a slow-simmering frustration. He’d grown soft, for now her anger pricked him like her needles and he felt it keenly. He set his tankard down and thought of how best to proceed. He was not a fine speechman, he didn’t have pretty words or easy flattery like some, but he thought he could allay her fears.

“Sansa,” he began.

“Mm?” Her murmur was cool but her needle slipped and she let out a hiss through her teeth.

“You’re angry with me.”

“Am I?” She was as distant as they had ever been as children, and here in this place he was painfully reminded of her lady mother.

“I don’t have your way with people, but I’m not blind either.”

“That’s good to know.”

Her tart tongue, developed after their separation, had never been aimed at him before, and he did not like that either. Jon sighed.

“I know you don’t want me to go south, and I know why.”

“Pray share, my lord.”

“You don’t think I’ll come back.”

It was not a baseless fear, he had to admit. Their father--her father, and was the correction never going to be less painful?--had not. And Daenerys Stormborn had good reason to burn him to a crisp: he was the only Targaryen heir left to challenge her.

If he kept thinking like that, he thought ruefully, he was going to talk himself out of it.

Sansa was staring at her lap, as if her focus was consumed by her work, but her hands were still.

“I know you intend to,” she allowed finally.

“It’s a parlay,” he reminded her, and she huffed a short, sharp breath. A silent comment on his naïveté, though she was too polite to say the words.

“With dragons.”

“Which she has thus far kept away from the smallfolk.” Not that the sight of them flaming down what remained of the Lannister forces was _less_ terrifying, according to the few reports they had. “If we want to keep it that way, we had best heed her summons. Especially if we want her help.”

“You might not return.”

Her voice did not melt; if anything, it grew colder, and he felt a vast wintry plain rise up between them. He had hoped this was not how he would remember her last before she saw him off. Jon slammed the tankard down on the bench, harder than he intended, and left without looking at her.

* * *

He was still in a sour mood when, finished with his bath--it might be the last tub he saw for some time, but he wasn’t in the mood to appreciate it--he returned to his bed in a linen tunic and loose breeches.

Sansa was sitting on the bench in front of his fire.

He froze. His hair was dripping down the back of his neck, and he was half-wet still, his bedclothes clinging to his body in various embarrassing places.

He didn’t have to croak out her name, because she turned to him with an air of expectation. As if she’d been waiting for him.

She did not seem at all bothered by his state of undress, or even surprised. How long had she been waiting for him? And had he really been so consumed by self-pity that, screen aside, his dark thoughts obscured the sound of her entry into his chambers?

He did not get any words together before she spoke.

“Come, Jon,” she said, and though her voice was gentle, its authority carried him over to her side. “Have a drink with me.”

He chanced a few cautious looks at her from the corner of his vision as they sat in companionable silence. Though she sought him out, she did not seem inclined to speak. When she caught his eye, she offered the barest hint of a smile. Her eyes were no longer frozen pools; they had thawed completely, like a river in springtime beset by some tumult he did not recognize.

Her cup turned in her hands. Her cheeks were high with color--from the fire or the wine, he could not say.

“Sansa,” he began finally, but paused: he did not think this far ahead. The future ahead of them was a murky one, and they both knew this too keenly for any words of reassurance to be effective.

She turned to face him fully. “You’re going south,” she said finally, “and you may not return.”

What had been an accusation was transformed into an expression of fear.

“I know,” Jon said, laying his hand over hers. “I wish it was different. But there’s nothing to be done.”

“I know,” she said, and her hand twitched. She inhaled, as if gathering her courage, and kissed him. Her lips were soft and sweet upon his, and he felt her fingers against his jaw. Something about the feel of them paralyzed Jon, and he did not move away.

Sansa took this as encouragement, pressing herself closer, harder, and her tongue swept across the seam of his lips. Before he knew what he was doing, he sighed into her mouth and returned her kiss, capturing her lip between his and feeling her shiver in response. He cupped the back of her head, running his thumb across her cheek.

Then he pulled away, before the wine could make her do something truly stupid. He extracted his fingers from her braid, mussing it, and cleared his throat.

“There’s your goodbye kiss,” he offered, and her eyes darkened at him.

“Jon.” His erstwhile sister said his name like he was a particularly dimwitted, recalcitrant child. Then she stood in front of him, the glow of the fire making her shift nearly transparent, every sweet curve apparent.

Bracing herself on his shoulder, she gathered the gauzy material in the other hand, hiking it to her waist, and carefully straddled him on the bench. For all her show of forwardness, her legs wobbled as she seated herself carefully, making his breath catch, until she leaned back on his thighs and looked him in the eye.

The places where they touched felt like fire. He couldn’t tear his gaze from hers.

“You’re leaving,” she said for the third time, and he knew it was the last, “and you may never come back.”

He settled his hands on her hips. “Would you have me stay?” 

Her blue eyes were unfathomable. She bent to kiss him again, her lips light and questing. He let it happen, not stopping her but not helping either. Her fingers sank into the hair at the back of his neck. Persistent. What she wanted from him he wasn’t exactly sure, but he hadn’t understood what Sansa wanted since they were children and all she spoke of were knights and romance. He could offer her neither.

Jon stood, hitching her body against his so they were pressed together hip to hip and breast to breast. The movement jarred the kiss, and he saw her lips parted and panting, her cheeks flushed. There were many things he wanted to ask her, chief among them _why?_ , and in his more secret heart, _why me?_ , but all he said was, “Are you sure?”

Her nod was firm, and that was that.

The first time was awkward. Ironically, it was her very determination that made her stiff, and Jon hesitant. It had been too long since he was with a woman and he’d nearly forgotten how it felt, and he outpaced her. But she kissed him after, and he slipped a hand between her legs.

The second time, determined to make up for the first, he went slow, withdrawing almost completely before each thrust, and that is much better. He suspended their pleasure as long as he could, drawing it out until they were both shaking and sweating, until she dug her nails into him and wrapped her legs around his waist, until he felt her climax and the thread inside him snapped.

She ought not stay in his chambers, but she gave no sign of wanting to leave, settling in beside him. He intended to remind her that she should leave for her own sake, but as each minute passed in comfortable silence, and the body next to him remained warm while the fire died, he couldn’t bring himself to break the peace.

He woke sometime later. The fire was almost dead and the bed next to him was cool.

But she was not gone, only sitting up with her back next to him. He pushed himself up to his elbows.

“All right?” he asked, half dreading her answer.

But there was no regret in her expression when she returned to him. “Yes. Only thinking.”

“I’ll do everything in my power to survive and return, I swear it.”

“Of course you’ll survive. She’s not going to kill you.” Her voice was perfectly even, like she’d never doubted it.

“Then…”

“Daenerys is going to propose marriage.” His head was still fuzzy. She still wasn’t making sense. “An alliance of North and South,” she added.

“She’s my aunt,” he protested faintly.

“And a Targaryen,” she said archly, chuckling at the face he made. “I suppose it’s no stranger than cousins raised to be siblings.” Then Sansa ducked her head and lost her smile. “Who knows what may be different by the time you return? You may have a wife. I may have a child.”

Her fingertips brushed her belly and Jon couldn’t seem to get enough air into his lungs.

“You wouldn’t--” He broke off, unease churning. “Why would you keep a bastard child?” _I’ll never father a bastard._ It seemed as though all his vows were destined for breaking.

Sansa took one of his hands and touched his knuckles to her stomach. The soft give of the skin there and the possibility of what might already lie beneath made him swallow, hard.

“It doesn't have to be a bastard.” Her chin lifted, a challenge.

Jon stared at her for a long moment, then squeezed her hand.

“It’s settled, then. We’ll say our vows in the godswood on the morrow.”

Relief broke over her face. He pulled her down to him and they curled together.

“You know,” he said, before she could get too comfortable, “you could have just asked.”

Her startled eyes flew to his face, but she relaxed when she saw the smile tugging at his mouth.

“A woman asking for a man’s hand? That would be very improper.”

“We couldn’t have you doing anything improper,” he said seriously, and the huff of her laughter was her only response.


End file.
